


The Journey

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Character Death, Gen, Guilt, Poisoning, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: On an Octeday afternoon, Drumknott makes a regrettable error.





	The Journey

At two-thirty-two in the afternoon, one of the footmen brings up the afternoon postdelivery, and at the same time he brings up a new box of quills, as Drumknott had requested them earlier on, as Lord Vetinari is on his last two in the Oblong Office, although in all honesty, Drumknott does not expect him to be using a quill for much longer.

Leonard of Quirm has been designing, with both alacrity and aplomb, a most interesting device that combines both quill and ink pot, wherein the ink flows down the nib whilst one writes, and it is interesting indeed – something, Drumknott muses, to look forward to.

Taking one of the quills at random from the box, he takes a small blade from the desk surface, ordinarily used to open the letters, and he drags the blade delicately over the end of the quill, sharpening the edge to use it—

A curious warmth is lingering on his fingers, working its way under his skin, and he can feel the neat as it rises up his arm—

A separate footman ought have brought the box of quills, he realizes. He had only sent the message downstairs a moment ago: it oughtn’t have come with the letters, it oughtn’t have…

Drumknott exhales hard, and he ignores the tingling warmth creeping up his arm as he swiftly takes up a pencil, scrawling out his notes as fast as he can; even as he writes down the name of the poison, advises no one to touch the box, nor to touch the quill, and which footman had brought up the quills and post. He does this on the contact paper, so that when he lifts up the top layer, a second imprint rests on his desk, just in case.

Standing is actually rather hard.

He’s beginning to feel some warmth all over, now, his skin rather hot, and he feels somewhat dizzy, but he collects himself as best he can to go into the corridor and knock on the door of the Oblong Office.

He feels like crying, but that would be—

That would be _undignified_.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Havelock Vetinari can _see_ Death.

There are those individuals on the Disc that can see Death – children, cats, witches, and wizards, are each among this number. When one is aware of life and its potential opposites in the way that these beings are, the anthropomorphic representation of life’s natural antithesis, _Death_ , is quite visible.

Most individuals on the Disc, quite naturally, do not think about death until it is the only thing that can be thought about: death, in its most truthful form, cannot be considered without driving one utterly mad, or otherwise upsetting one to some great extent.

Death has never upset Havelock Vetinari: just a moment ago, he had arrived in the corner of the Oblong Office, and is waiting quietly. Vetinari makes no indication that he is aware of his presence – he has never done so before, and has no plan to, until it becomes important. It would upset the wizards, he thinks, were they to know he was capable of seeing the spectral figure that makes them so nervous.

Perhaps Vetinari is about to die… Perhaps not.

On every occasion before this one, Death’s presence had indicated the coming defeat of an Assassin of some renown at Vetinari’s hand. When there is a knock at the door – Drumknott’s quiet, fastidious knock – Vetinari nonetheless grasps neatly at his cane, just in case.

“Yes, Drumknott?” he calls, and the door opens, closing with a stuttered movement.

Drumknott’s red face is uncharacteristically pale, and he is shaking somewhat. A very grim, cold understanding settles in Vetinari’s gut, and he doesn’t allow it to show in his face. “My lord,” Drumknott says softly, with a slight crack in his voice as he moves across the room; his left hand is hanging down slightly limply at his side, the fingers twitching, “I regret to inform you that I have made—” He inhales shakily, his voice cracking once more, although his expression remains entirely neutral, revealing nothing. “I have made a slight error. If it meets with your approval, my lord, I should just like to— To sit down, for three minutes or so.”

Even as he speaks, his knees buckle, and Vetinari watches as he drops heavily at the second desk in the room, the one that he sits at to take dictation. He is breathing rather heavily, and doing his best to hide the difficulty he is having in inhaling and exhaling.

Anger, sudden and flaring, burns in his chest, and Vetinari turns his head, and looks directly at Death.

It would be wrong, to say an expression of surprise passes across Death’s face, because Death’s face is almost entirely devoid of expression, as a result of having no flesh or muscle with which to display emotion. With that said, Vetinari is aware that Death is _surprised_. He cannot say anything. What is Vetinari to say? There is no threatening Death himself, and if the poison has already had this much of an effect on Drumknott, he is beyond saving.

And he has stumbled on his shaking legs into Vetinari’s office, that he might die here.

Vetinari looks back to Drumknott, and says softly, “I see.”

“I’m very sorry, my lord,” Drumknott says miserably, and Vetinari stands to his feet, leaning on his cane as he moves across the room: for a moment, an emotion shows in Drumknott’s face, a single emotion escaping through the careful filter of his outward neutrality. Not anger, at his killer or at Vetinari; not sadness, or fear, at being faced with death. Drumknott’s singular display of emotion betrays one of the no-doubt complicated swirl of emotion he feels: guilt.

 ** _Stupid_** _man_ , Vetinari almost wants to snap. _You have a right to be angry, to be frightened, but not to think this is your fault._

But isn’t this, most quintessentially, Drumknott’s nature?

“I presume you’ve called for the Watch?” Vetinari asks.

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says. “The information is on my desk, and I’ve sent a copy of it down the tube to the Dark Clerks.”

“Very good,” Vetinari murmurs, and he sees the slight relaxation of Drumknott’s trembling shoulders, sees the relief show. Death, at its core, is quite patently unfair: Vetinari is aware of that, in this moment, in a way that he rarely is. Reaching out, he sets his hand on Drumknott’s shoulder, standing just behind him, and he hears the wheeze as Drumknott exhales. It is a meagre comfort, but it is all he will offer, and Drumknott seems grateful.

It must be very painful. Drumknott has the air of a man doing his level best not to cry.

“Your service, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, and he hears the distant clang of a bell in the city below – they’ve sent a clacks to the Watch, and they’re en route, he is quite certain, “has been more than satisfactory.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott mumbles.

“No, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, and he squeezes slightly, but if Drumknott feels it, he does not show it: his head is lolling slightly now, and his laboured breathing is beginning to slow. “Thank _you_.”

It takes only a minute or so more. Vetinari waits until he feels the weak pulse under his fingers come to a stop, and he glances at Death, who is beside him, now. Death looks Vetinari right in the eyes, and Vetinari looks, unfeeling, into those deep eye sockets.

COULD YOU… _ALWAYS_ SEE ME? Death asks. No curiosity is evident in his Voice, because no emotion can exist there.

Vetinari does not answer, and he turns away from Drumknott’s corpse where it slumps in the chair: instead, he turns his cold gaze to the courtyard of the palace below, waiting for Vimes to arrive.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

The shade of Rufus Drumknott stands directly beside his corpse. His posture, which is ordinarily perfect, is somewhat slumped, his hands clenched very tightly at his sides, his gaze focused on the back of Lord Vetinari where he looks out of the window and into the courtyard.

A moment ago, he had been doing his best not to show any emotion, but now, Death sees them.

He sees the young man[1] clench his fists even harder and, in one motion, let out an incoherent yell of noise, stamping one foot upon the ground. It is not directed, from what Death can tell, at anybody in particular: it is merely the only impotent display of anger that is, in this moment, available to him.

He looks at Death with his newly spectral eyes rather wet behind the ghostly frames of his glasses.

ARE YOU FRIGHTENED? Death asks.

“No,” Drumknott says.

ARE YOU ANGRY? Death asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” Drumknott snaps, but the look of accusation is not levelled at Death himself, but at his own corpse, beside him. This is curious, and somewhat unexpected.

WHY? Death asks.

“Because _he_ ,” Drumknott mumbles, and he jabs one thin finger in the direction of the Patrician’s back, although he then falters, looking somewhat embarrassed at being caught pointing at anyone, least of all his (now ex-)employer, “is going to have to make do with sub-standard service, because I was stupid enough to…”

Drumknott trails off, and he takes one step toward Vetinari, but already, the Patrician’s Palace is beginning to fade. Humans, Death muses, are infinitely strange and surprising.

IT COULD BE SAID, Death says, THAT YOUR PRIORITIES ARE UNUSUAL.

“People have said that, yes,” Drumknott whispers, and he now looks at Death. “His lordship won’t die for a while, will he?”  Before Death can respond, he says, “Oh, no, I suppose you oughtn’t tell me that. And I wouldn’t want you to. I shouldn’t have asked: I’m sorry.”

NO APOLOGIES ARE NECESSARY.

Drumknott swallows, and finally, he turns to face Death properly. He seems very, very small.

There is no denial present in his body language or in his expression, but nor is there any fear. Drumknott is not frightened of death – in life, he had only been frightened of inefficiency. He is almost shy as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest, looking up at Death. When he asks his question, very softly, it is with a reserved timidity. “Will there be a train?”

He gives Death a hopeful look, although midway through, he glances back to where Vetinari had been standing, as if hoping he might make a return. Of course, that does not happen.

THERE WILL BE, Death answers, A JOURNEY.

Drumknott nods, slowly, and with one last reluctant look in the direction Vetinari had been, he follows where Death leads.

 

[1] Even at thirty-three years old, Drumknott had the air of a man much younger, in equal measures due to his quietly earnest air, red cheeks and wide eyes, and his petite frame.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.
> 
> I run a [Discworld Comm](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/), and there's also [a Discord right here.](https://discord.gg/b8Z3ThH)


End file.
